The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me (12 page)

Work came second. And me? I suddenly realised I’d developed a potential y terminal case of tunnel vision –

but, thankful y, she was stil patient, and the wine was strong.

I
arrived at the imposing gates of Earl’s Court exhibition centre in London. By now I was warming to the concept of just turning up at places with no idea what to expect. I pul ed out my kitbag and wandered into the building. A raucous howl reverberated through the wal s, fol owed by the shriek of tortured rubber. My kind of music.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness. Blackout curtains separated the hive of nocturnal backstage activity from the bright kaleidoscopic lights on stage. Row upon row of priceless supercars, new and vintage, were lined up so close it made you wince just looking at them.

Someone appeared at my side and eyed my carry-al . ‘You ’ere to drive that Jag, then?’

I eyebal ed him silently.

‘It’s al right, I know you’re working for Andy. I’m Paul, the stage manager.’

‘Ah, thanks …’

‘We’re in the middle of rehearsals at the moment. The first show’s tonight. Go and ’ave a look if you like.’ He pointed towards the stage.

A line of Le Mans cars waited their turn in the spotlight, escorted by some female racing drivers. The curtain whipped back as a familiar voice boomed through the PA system: ‘… and you see that’s what we love about Le Mans: it’s basical y
men
trying to kil themselves at 200mph. But now it’s even better. There’s
girls

…’ The voice was growing hoarse.

There was no mistaking this guy. One hand held the mic, the other wafted around in the air as he strode back and forth, pointing occasional y and cocking his head in exaggerated thought. The abundance of pubic curls gathering snow at the summit of this monster confirmed it was none other than Jeremy Clarkson, as much a household name to me as Maggie Thatcher, Heinz Baked Beans and Colonel Gaddafi.

Racer Girl Number 1 duly introduced herself, treating the empty auditorium to a sizeable slice of her life history, thanking her wonderful sponsors, the amazing team, her dynamite engine and was in ful stride until—

‘
No, no, no …
Get off.
GET OFF
. We don’t want to hear al that bloody nonsense.’ Racer Girl’s Colgate smile evaporated. ‘The people coming here tonight haven’t paid thirty quid to listen to a sodding commercial! Off you go.’

The cars moved sheepishly offstage. Mobile phones buzzed, agents were bleated to. ‘Who does he think he is, talking to me like that?’

This was the rehearsal for the MPH Show, now bil ed as
Top Gear Live
, a heady mixture of supercars, mega-stunts and talking heads in front of an audience of 4,000 petrolheads. Andy had just told me he wanted some ‘precision driving, real close shave stuff’.

Paul explained that I would be driving head to head against Tiff Need-el for a timed run around a

‘figure 8 course’ in a supercharged 600 horsepower Jaguar XKR. Tiff was a former
Top Gear
presenter who moved on to host a rival programme cal ed
Fifth Gear
. Known as ‘stiff needle’ to the lady fans, he was the snake-hipped king of burning rubber and had thrashed more supercars than I could dream of. He’d driven in Formula 1 back in the Eighties and famously biffed Nigel Mansel into the wal during a Touring Car race.

I only had one shot at practice before the show went live, so I suited up and waited behind the curtains. With the visor down I could barely see my own feet in the dimmed stage lighting and could hear little better. Tiff peered at me through his pair of squints, knocked on the helmet and shouted, ‘Is that Perry in there?’

I shook my head.

Tiff hopped in the Jag and drifted sensational y sideways around the figure 8, one-handed, whilst giving a running commentary in a voice that resembled a parrot on amphetamines.

The talking heads on stage blabbed away. Paul appeared at my side and, at some unknown cue, tapped my shoulder and hissed, ‘STIG …
Go!’

I ambled out into the arena and felt a rush of nerves. There suddenly seemed to be a lot of people watching. I had raced in front of 100,000 people, but this was far more personal. I felt like Hamlet. I walked the long walk to the Jag, sank into it and searched in pitch darkness for the ignition key. By the time I got the engine running the silence on stage was deafening.

‘Yes, come on you,
go!’
Clarkson urged helpful y.

I dropped the hammer and the barbaric supercharged motor belted me forward. Dim lighting shone over two circular platforms that marked out the figure 8 course. I could only guess at the distance to the black curtains concealing the concrete perimeter.

I used a short oval technique, braked on the diagonal and waited for the front tyres to stop skidding across the slick metal panels. Then I turned hard and accelerated. The automatic box spun the wheels into a high gear towards the next platform.

I was playing blindfold basebal in a china shop, convinced I would slam into something at any moment and look a complete numpty. I only saw the platforms moments before missing them. With great relief I completed the figure 8 without hitting anything and exited the arena. As soon as I parked I analysed the run and worked out how to drive it faster.

Wilman arrived and directed me towards a nearby motor home. I snuck inside to get changed, then sat down to read a magazine. The door swung open. A curly mop brushed the ceiling, swiftly pursued by a pair of gigantic eyebrows. Judging by Jeremy’s surprise, I’d trespassed on his sofa.

Andy appeared from behind him and introduced us. We chatted for a moment, then Jeremy made to go. Never shy of having the last word, he turned on the threshold and said, ‘When you do the Jag next time, can you try not to drive it like a homosexual?’

Do I punch him or just give him a slap? I thought. ‘Don’t behave like your father …’ Mum’s words jangled inside my head for a few crucial seconds and Jeremy vanished.

A few hours later it was show time. Clarkson’s comment had replaced my first-night nerves with a petulant colic. Tiff took the helm and delivered a stunning display. The rear of the Jag slewed sideways and swept up the curtains covering the barriers, so close was he to striking the wal .

Tiff completed his performance and someone shouted, ‘Go!’ I assumed that meant me.

I strode across the arena, clocking Tiff’s time on the giant digital readout: 34.5. I slid under the steering wheel and cranked the key. My body shuddered as the V8 came to life.

The view ahead was worse than before. The camera flashes from the audience flared across my visor and blurred the platforms I had to navigate around.

The only way out was through. I decked the throttle and fol owed my earlier line with a series of jerky, uncertain movements, keeping my foot down for as long as possible, with no sense of the far wal and too angry to care. I caught sight of the platform a bit late and braked, skidded on to the dirty outer floor and nearly ran straight into the wal . Some grip came back to the front, and she just turned.

To score the best lap time I had to repeat the process on the other half of the 8 by braking as late as possible. I wanted to beat Tiff’s time so much that my chest was heaving.

I wove between the platforms and lost myself in a sudden shaft of light. I instinctively added steering to compensate. My vision cleared.
Iceberg … dead ahead …
I swerved and braked to avoid it. Back on the gas, I slid the Jag around and finished the lap.

Eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, I demanded the time.

Jeremy guffawed to the crowd. ‘The Stig’s lap – it’s not very spectacular … but it’s
FASTER
– a 34.1!’

Yes.
Stick
that
in your pipe, big boy.

I was beginning to understand Jeremy’s World. Behind his brusque façade was a man working tirelessly and fastidiously to put on a good show, a man who wanted everyone pul ing in the same direction.

There was logic behind his madness, an unpasteurised honesty, and people either loved him or hated him for it. It was this political y incorrect fresh air that had attracted me to
Top Gear
in the first place, not an obsession with cars. I was glad I hadn’t smacked him.

S
omeone representing the Ministry of Defence left a message saying I had a drive – the Army

‘Stealth car’ – in the European Ascar Series, starting that weekend. Maybe my fortunes were on the up.

I arrived at Rockingham for the first race as the morning sun fought its way over the grandstands.

The pink skyline blossomed and the sun poured into the concrete bowl of the modern-day Colosseum. The warped reflections of thirty race cars glinted on the mirrored glass of the hospitality suites above the pit straight as the crews readied their machines. A 200-foot timing tower reached for the sky, ready to display the competitors’ ranking.

The camouflage stickers were stil being applied to Car 84, but my name was over the door and that was a good sign. The team, Ray Mal ock Engineering (RML), were proven winners in everything they did.

Their attention to detail left nothing to chance.

I climbed aboard and connected the window net. At the centre of the big wheel was a leather pad like a huge slab of liquorice, in case you wrapped your teeth around it during a head-on shunt. The joints of the chassis tubes were wel soldered and you could eat your breakfast off the freshly painted interior. Even the oil smelt fresh.

I gradual y built up speed on track. NASCARs ran on the edge the whole time, and one slip on a patch of oil could deposit you backwards into the concrete fence. Turn One, with its gentle banked radius, was at the end of the pit straight after the main grandstands and taken almost flat out. Two was trickier as the track dropped and veered sharply away, hiding the apex until you had already committed your soul at the entry. It was flat out for the brave. Three was easy flat, and Four required some brake, some wheel wrangling, then a heavy right foot to please the crowd. The car was superbly balanced and steered beautiful y through the turns. I was fifth fastest in practice with plenty in reserve.

The field lined up to set two f lying laps, one at a time, for qualifying. The tower displayed each time to the crowd, cranking up the drama.

I went out third and stayed in the car whilst Vince, my wiry mechanic, stood on the pit wal to observe how the first two got on. He suddenly ducked, as though a shot had been fired at him.

He came over sucking air through his teeth. ‘That looked expensive. He’s gone in hard at Two.’

I didn’t want to hear that. In my mind’s eye, I’d already taken Two completely flat. But if someone was in the wal there it meant the corner was already a bitch, and now there was debris …

After a delay, the next victim went out. Vince rotated his index finger to signal ‘start engine’. I would be joining the track as soon as the other car recorded its time. My heart thumped as I listened to the roar of the V8 flying past. As it reached peak revs on the pit straight, the crisp note of the motor bounced back off the grandstands. It didn’t come round a second time.

‘Turn Two again. Nasty,’ Vince said.

This was getting ridiculous. Phil Barker, the team manager, decided to have a word. Phil was a racing stalwart who tuned his team to run as efficiently as a Swiss watch. He saw me coming a mile away.

Phil came to the front of my car and brought his radio mic round to his perfectly planed silver moustache.

‘Two cars in the wal at Two, Ben. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realise there’s something wrong down there. Remember, this is the first weekend and there’s two races tomorrow. If you smash the car up, you’ve only got yourself to blame. Al right?’

‘Understood. Thanks, Phil.’

My first lap out of the pits showed me there was nothing to fear on the track but fear itself. I felt the tyres come in and stick like glue. Here was an opportunity to assert dominance over the rest of the competition right from the start.

I backed off early for Four, then jammed the accelerator to the floor. I kept a stiff hold of the steering as the front end crept towards the wal . It ran to within an inch of touching and I kept it there down the length of the straight to benefit from the low air pressure, picking up a tiny amount of additional speed. With the throttle wide open, I cranked the steering wheel into One as late as possible, trailing off the throttle al the way down to the white line of the apex, with my left foot hovering over the brake. As soon as the tyres hooked up, I squeezed the gas back on towards Two.

You could tel yourself a corner was flat out al day long until you actual y came to do it. Even the slightest lift affected your speed and there was never any going back. Turn in too early and the car would exit early into the wal . Turn too late and it wouldn’t turn enough and I’d have to back off. On new tyres you had to believe the grip was there. Knowing that two cars had just greased themselves on the wal made the throttle pedal weigh a ton, but no guts, no glory.
Make it have it.

I took a late line but turned sharply to make up for it. The fresh rubber soaked up the strain; it speared in, flat out. I cut the inside white line and howled up to the wal without kissing. Three was easy flat by comparison, a gentle float but you had to hang on. The extra speed from Two carried me al the way to the last corner. The engine bumped off the rev limiter as it reached top speed. That was new.

I squeezed the brake with my left foot for Four and accelerated at the same time – you never released the throttle completely on a fast oval because the axle was angled – then blasted across the finish line. My number went to the top of the tower and we set a new track record. After the other 24 cars completed their laps, it confirmed we had pole position.

From pole I led the race until the pit-stop window, which happened to fal on a safety car for another crash. We’d planned to come in at the end of the three-lap window, but you usual y pitted on a safety car because it saved track time.